


An Unlucky Man

by bible



Category: Koroshiya Ichi | Ichi the Killer
Genre: Ableist Language, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Cock & Ball Torture, Facials, Genital Piercing, Guro, M/M, Mating Press, Violence, gut fucking, hooo boy, it's literally the most vile thing i've ever written but it's nut worthy tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 15:42:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19298755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bible/pseuds/bible
Summary: When Ichi lifts his foot, the blade doesn’t go with it, and he topples backwards. Thoroughly disconnected from his shoe, Kakihara realizes that Ichi’s weapon of choice has now broken offinsideof him.There’s something ridiculously attractive about the thought, and he has to press the heel of his good arm to his boner, so that he doesn’t cum then and there. He’s still got more fight in him, and the energy is stored in the balls.





	An Unlucky Man

**Author's Note:**

> full disclosure this is as violent as the movie is so just. keep that in mind. i tried to keep it in tone w/ the absurd and cartoonish style of violence takashi miike uses, and the violence isn't consequential or realistic at all, but since it's sexually explicit, like. you know. just keep it in mind.
> 
> kinda a mix of the movie and the manga but who's keeping track  
> i can't believe no one's written this ship before

                The slab of Ichi’s blade is glinting moonlight-silver, and it’s wedged deep in Kakihara’s shoulder. Kakihara barely registers the fact that it’s sunk so low into his flesh, that it’s grinding up against the hard layer of bone. A _snap_ ripples through the night, sharp-sounding and dangerous. At first, Kakihara thinks it’s his arm. When Ichi lifts his foot, the blade doesn’t go with it, and he topples backwards. Thoroughly disconnected from his shoe, Kakihara realizes that Ichi’s weapon of choice has now broken off _inside_ of him.

                There’s something ridiculously attractive about the thought, and he has to press the heel of his good arm to his boner, so he doesn’t cum then and there. He’s still got more fight in him, and the energy is stored in the balls.

                Pain barely registers, because pain is only a state of mind, and Kakihara’s chin dips to his sternum so he can look at the blood darkening the sequins on his shirt, the weapon bathed in it but the bloodless part still somehow immaculately clean. Does Ichi wash it after every kill? Did he sharpen it freshly for him?

                “M—mm—m… M- _muh_ … My…” he sniffles, Ichi’s bottom lip trembling viciously, eyes teary and wet. Kakihara’s line of vision—now darkened around the edges and wobbling like a shaky camera—slides dizzily from the blade to Ichi. Ichi’s staggered back on his heels, his gloved fists curled against his cheeks like a caricature of a baby about to bawl.

                Kakihara groans out his insult, “What, you gonna cry? You little bitch?”

                “Mm…”

                “Come on, spit it out. I know you can learn to speak if you _really_ set your mind to it.” They’ve been fighting since the midafternoon. They’re sweat-slicked and invigorated and exhausted, and Kakihara has narrowly avoided his death one too many times. Every time Ichi snaps into a facsimile of sanity, Kakihara has had to pry the violence back out. He’s noticed that goading him— _bullying_ him, in Ichi’s terms—makes Ichi particularly violent. And that’s what he wants. Even Anjo couldn’t pull the kind of insane, unrestrained cruelty that Ichi has. Kakihara’s split nose is evidence of that.

                “Are you _that_ retarded?” he chokes out. His voice is wet and gurgling with saliva, and maybe blood, too.

                “MY _SHOE_!”

                Ichi’s wail is the frightening sound of crying that a mother experiences with her child. It’s that gasping-choke-inhale- _is-he-gonna-die?-_ cry that toddlers produce. Deep breaths hiccup as the tears and snot start flowing.

                Kakihara gets to his feet. He has a bizarre way of standing up, but Ichi’s seen his dodge-and-lift move so much, that it isn’t a surprise. He doesn’t use his arms to push him up. Good thing, too, since his left one is now rendered useless, and only his legs are responsible for getting him on his feet.

                Kakihara circles him, his good hand still brandishing a needle, a wicked smile on his face.

                “Not so tough without your blade, are you?”

                Ichi continues to sob, his shoulders jittering as he stands lamely across from him, atop the high-rise. The city glints behind him, alive and thrumming as the both of them.

                The yakuza doesn’t attack, though. It’s getting repetitive. Every time Ichi breaks down, every time he falls out of the killing machine zone, Kakihara is intent on getting him back into it, his fear and excitement cutting out any self-survival. He’ll die for this fight, for this exhilaration. And though the tears often induce the cruelty in Ichi’s ministrations, without his weapon, he’s practically castrated.

                “Oh, come on,” Kakihara sighs, lowering his needle. “You won’t fight me?”

                “You b-broke my sh… shoe…”

                “ _I_ broke it?! You’re the one who tried to slice my arm off, you scary fuck.”

                Ichi wails. Kakihara walks up to him and drops his needle back into his beltloop. Reaching over, he grabs the blunt end of the blade and begins to pry it out of his own arm. There’s a viscous, disgusting, squelching noise, and then a spray of blood that makes Kakihara light-headed, swaying on his legs. He wants to keep it. It’s a neat, light weight in his hand, like a well-crafted knife only the most excellent chefs use.

                When Ichi reaches out for it, Kakihara pulls his hand away.

                “Nope.”

                “Give it back!” Ichi asks, nose running, “Please! It’s mine!”

                “Did you make this yourself?”

                “Uh… huh…”

                “You did? That’s impressive. How did you do it?”

                Ichi blinks, confused. His dark, glassy eyes glisten like the streaks of golden headlights in the traffic a million miles below them. He looks like an angel perched on his industrial cloud. “I used to… work at a… plant. We made car parts…”

                “Huh,” Kakihara leans forward, and draws his stitched-up tongue along the blade, tasting his own blood—a familiar metallic tinge of his own creation, incomparable. All blood is incomparable, though. No bottle of soy sauce really tastes the same, when you get down to it. “Well, it looks like our death match is cancelled. It wouldn’t be fair if you didn’t have a weapon, would it?”

                Ichi wipes his nose on the back of his hand and shakes his head. “No… I guess not…”

                Kakihara rubs his hand over his cock, tenting his wine-colored pants, and then tilts his head. “You want to come over for some food, or something?”

                Ichi nods pathetically, shrugs his shoulders. He seems disoriented, eyes still studying the blade Kakihara won’t give back. Jijii can wait, Ichi guesses, because he _is_ rather hungry, and weaponless. Besides, once they fix his shoe, Kakihara will probably die.

                “Okay.”

                “Great,” Kakihara purrs, “I’m thinkin’ a bento.”

*

                Ichi’s not _that_ disturbed by Kakihara’s apartment, but he might be if he wasn’t a murderer. The crumpled yen, the scattered poker chips, the trash strewn about, the variety of weapons, the chains, the bloodstained bedsheets, the low, jaundiced lights, the S&M equipment (surprisingly unused). Most notably is the fact that it looks like a weapon dealer’s den, an array of knives and swords and guns casually placed upon dusty furniture as though they’re decorative plates. The bento is good, though. Ichi eats it, cross-legged on the floor, because Kakihara’s table is inexplicably sawed in half.

                “So what’s the best thing you’ve cut in half with this?” Kakihara asks, inspecting the blade he still hasn’t handed over. He’s sprawled on a cigarette-burnt couch, his bad shoulder poorly bandaged by himself. Ichi doesn’t respond, eyes stuck on a poster of a girl in a hospital bed, wearing nothing but gauze and white panties and a post-op eyepatch.

                “I’m talking to you.”

                Ichi’s eyebrows raise and he looks at Kakihara, the katsu squeezed between his teeth. “Uh—hmm... Your boss.”

                “Not funny,” Kakihara laughs.

                Ichi smiles nervously. His teeth are stained dull with years of caffeine.

                Kakihara juts the blade between his vermillion couch cushions and stands up. Reaching out a hand, he helps Ichi off the floor, and nods towards the girl on the wall. “You like her?”

                Ichi nods, wide-eyed and curious. If he wasn’t such an ice-cold freak of a killer, he’d be almost innocent in appearance. Sanrio eyes.

                “Like bandages?”

                “Yeah. I like—I like someone who looks like they’ve been beat up.”

                When Kakihara grins, the split on either side of his mouth bunches up beneath the apples of his cheeks, giving him the illusion of a much larger smile. “Don’t I look like I’ve been beat up?” he coos, voice pitched up girlishly. His breath is warm and close and smells of nicotine and blood.

                Ichi nods, scrolling his eyes over Kakihara’s battered face, as if he’s just now registering the pale, raised scars crisscrossing it.

                Kakihara shrugs off his suit jacket, pungent with sweat, and lifts his shirt over his head. The shoulder wound splits once more with the action, blood trickling down his thin side, and it soaks into the bandage grotesquely. Ichi watches him undress, standing frozen across from him.

                “Get naked.”

                “What?”

                “We’re going to fight again, but I’m not ready to die here.”

                “Oh. But I have to kill you, you know? You’re a bastard bully, you know?”

                “Yeah, but since your shoe’s still broken, we’ll just play-fight, okay?”

                “Why do I need to get naked?”

                “Just in case. You might be hiding more blades in that goofy-ass outfit of yours.”

                Ichi shakes his head. “I’m really not.”

                “Do you take karate?” Kakihara coos, a seeming non-sequitur, as he unbuckles his pants and pushes them down his legs. His leg hair is wheat-honey blonde, just like his facial hair and eyebrows.

                “I—I did, before I came to Kabukicho…”

                “Just like that, then. Show me. Look,” Kakihara grins as he pulls off his underwear. He gropes his still-aching dick, pierced through with thick, silver rings, “Wounds. Just like you like.”

                Ichi kneels down to get a better look.

                “Wow!”

*

                Kakihara can’t believe he’s gotten what he wants. He doesn’t consider himself a particularly unlucky man, but he’s a realist, all things considered. There isn’t often a second Anjo that shows up in your life, but—well, here he is.

                Ichi’s body is incredibly toned. He tells him that he rides his bike everywhere—even from the countryside, into Shinjuku. When he punches him, it certainly hurts, but for a man like Kakihara, it’s less than someone bumping into him. He was momentarily disappointed, surprised Ichi’s strength seemed to lie only in his psychosis and in his blade. But when Ichi _kicked_ him, he felt the air escape his lungs, felt a blooming white burst behind his sternum, felt his heart shudder in his body. Those legs were kangaroo powerful and deadly when weaponized for a reason.

                Ichi’s cock is cute and pink.

                Now they’re laying on Kakihara’s bloody bed, his wound still crying out maroon tears from his shoulder, and Ichi watches benevolently. Kakihara’s breathing heavily, because after that first kick, he asked Ichi not to hold back, to beat him like a cheating wife. And so Ichi did, and Kakihara’s broken ribs crunch when he sits up.

                Holding his erect dick in his hand, legs splayed lazily, Ichi’s chin balanced on his thigh, he explains how he got it pierced.

                “You know the guy you killed earlier? The one with the puppy ears on?”

                “Saboru?”

                “Uh, I think so. Maybe Jiro. One of them—they helped me do it.”

                “Wow!”

                Kakihara’s finger, nail caked with brown, dried blood like dirt, indicates the little piercings over his dick. Besides the large ring in the plum-colored head of his cock, he has studs running parallel to each other along the shaft. Ichi says they look like cat nipples, and Kakihara laughs so hard he spits up some blood.

                “The needles I used on you, and on a lot of people, I also use on myself. So I made these neat little holes, piercing right through the skin. See how they’re perfectly across from each other?”

                Ichi’s hips grind into the bed, and he nods, staring at the curve of Kakihara’s cock. It smells like cloying piss, but it’s okay. He’s fascinated.

                “Yeah, so one piercing got me two places to put my jewelry. I had, like, a good time pulling the skin back and being really careful not to castrate myself.”

                “Did it hurt?”

                “Nothing hurts me too much. Except you.”

                Ichi’s face flushes with a dreamy blush at the praise. “Can I touch it?”

                “Sure.”

*

                “HOLY _SHIT_!”

                “You _said_ —”

                “ _HOLY_ **_SHIT_**!” Kakihara’s scream is gurgling, piercing. Anyone left alive in the yakuza mansion of this complex would probably get chills from the sound. “YOU RIPPED MY FUCKING DICKHOLE!”

                Ichi observes the pretty cock ring in his palm. He might have yanked it out a _little_ overzealously, but it’s shiny and speckled with blood, and it smells like Kakihara, who he’s beginning to really like.

                “But you’re still hard.”

                “Of—” he takes a deep breath, settling back into his mountain of worn-out and cum-stained pillows. He’s got a penchant for dry humping them, surprising no one. “Of course, I am. That was… Really hot.”

                “Did it hurt?”

                Kakihara lifts a trembling hand, finger and thumb pinched a bit away from each other to indicate the threshold of pain he may have experienced. “Just a little.”

*

                Now the pain goes through him like a catheter. Now he gets what he had so long ago. What even the twins couldn’t do to his face, what only Anjo could ever achieve. After telling stories about school days to one another, Kakihara has successfully induced tears once more when he brought up the topic of popularity. He had no idea what had rattled around in Ichi’s inscrutable mind, but the tears came out, and so did the blade once again. But Kakihara didn’t mind, because he was feeling that real pain, and that real pleasure, his dick soaked in the blood that trickled down from his stomach.

                “Have y—you ever f—fuhh… Fucked a pussy before, Ichi?”

                Ichi whimpered, and some mucus slid off his upper lip and dolloped Kakihara’s chest.

                “I bet this’ll be even—better. A lot tighter, y—you know?”

                Ichi nodded his agreement. Thoroughly encouraged and enraptured, Ichi dug the blade into Kakihara’s stomach. He had made a slit that went all the way through him, until he could see the dark red mass of roiling intestines inside him as he breathed. But Kakihara would be okay, probably.

                Slicked in sweat, his arms chained above his head (as if he’d even attempt to push Ichi away), Kakihara watched through eyes slit with pleasure as Ichi dug his fingers into the wound. He’d look up with that wet, crying face, and smile again. The smile never reached his eyes. It was one of polite nervousness.

                “Is this okay?”

                “Yeah.”

                And now here Ichi is, dick fully flushed and leaking as though he’s about to fuck a girl’s dripping pussy, as he straddles Kakihara’s hips. “You know, I—I’ve never had sex with a living person before.”

                The words make Kakihara’s balls flex so hard his own asshole hurts a little.

                “Really?”

                Ichi nods and buries a finger in Kakihara’s guts. Kakihara is on the verge of panicking, but he swallows it down, because his cock has never been quite _this_ hard. He rubs the slick head of it against Ichi’s tailbone, leaves a clear line of precum like a snail’s tracks.

                “You’re really cute,” Kakihara observes. Ichi with his soft face and his boyish bowlcut and his dark hair and his stupid smile and his EXTREME PENCHANT FOR ULTRAVIOLENCE certainly _is_ cute.

                “No one’s ever said that to me before.”

                “You can put it in me if you want.”

                Ichi holds his own erection, pink and miraculously clean of blood, and angles it at the wound he’s made. The blade is resting nearby the edge of the bed, but as he shifts, it clatters to the ground noisily. “Wow!” he tells him.

                “Wow, indeed.”

                As he slowly plunges his member into Kakihara’s wound, he’s hit with the pleasant realization that he’s got his dick in the shifting wet insides of a breathing, living person, and it isn’t even a mouth or an asshole or even a pussy. He’s really breaking new ground here, and he feels accomplished. Squish.

                The only downside is that Kakihara wants it.

                As he bottoms out, balls flush against Kakihara’s abdomen, he tells him this lamentation, fresh tears spilling fat and globby down his cheeks.

                “I wish I was raping you instead.”

                Kakihara wishes his hands weren’t bound, so he could reach up and push his hair out of his face and nod sympathetically, as though he’s some sage old grandmother, or something. “So do I, man.”

                He almost pukes when Ichi’s dick wrenches through his insides, his guts literally being rearranged, as he pulls out. Then he sinks back in, and the pain is so intense that Kakihara is on the verge of passing out. The back of his skull itches strangely, a tickling sensation that he equates to sleeping gas taking effect. He keeps his eyes wide open, intent on cumming before he fucking dies.

                Ichi fucks him in earnest then, jackrabbiting his hips, his arms tight around his shoulders. Kakihara’s legs lift to wrap around his back, an optimal position for Ichi to ‘rape’ him further. What a fucked-up guy. He wonders what went wrong in his past, but the thought is wracked out of him like the moans coming from his lips as Ichi batters his guts.

                It makes noises like a wet cunt really would, if you held a microphone to it. Kakihara’s teeth are red when he grins, his mouth bubbling with blood, from his broken ribs or the stomach wound; he doesn’t know. He spits it in Ichi’s face. It splats over the bridge of his nose, thick with saliva, and that gets Ichi even _more_ riled up.

                As he bawls, he ruts into him with a hatred or a passion kindled, and Kakihara’s insides paint his dick the color of yangmei. Kakihara may as well be getting his dick wet, the pain is so blindingly arousing. The _drip-drip-squelch_ noise, the bawling from Ichi, the stench of blood bathing his nostrils acrid and sharp, the throbbing of his head, the burning of his abdomen—it’s all _nothing_ compared to the arousal keeping his dick stiffer than it’s ever been in his memory.

                When Kakihara closes his eyes, he sees a strange image of Ichi and himself, standing in front of Mt. Fuji in sakura season. The cherry buds are fragrant and pretty, and they’re both wearing coats and mittens and hats. They’re smiling at a disposable camera lens, arms thrown around each other’s shoulders, as though they’re normal, best buddies. The wind makes their hair rustle slightly, and the sky is yawning blue and bright.

                He opens his eyes and cums hard, vision blotching white for a moment.

                Ichi pulls out with a whine, looking over his shoulder at Kakihara’s twitching dick sputtering cum on his back. His brows hitch. “That’s nasty of you.”

                “You know, you’re my best friend in the whole world,” Kakihara pants, voice weak. His stomach is a mess, the wound further torn and his guts peeking out of him like stuffing pulled from a toy. Ichi nods and kneels closer to Kakihara’s face.

                “You’re—you’re mine too!”

                This time, Kakihara grins and says, “Wow,” in a tired, worn voice.

                Ichi jerks himself off with two quick passes of his sweating palm, and cums on Kakihara’s face. The semen splatters over him abundantly, but it looks neat compared to the mess on his stomach. And Ichi cums _a lot_. A ridiculous amount, really, Kakihara thinks, because as Ichi chokes out little sobs, he goes on, dick leaking and spurting the thick and milky fluid for a good minute or so, until his cheek feels fully warm and coated. It’s all on one side of his face, and Kakihara’s cut tongue falls between his lips to lap at the semen he can reach. Makes a show of smacking and saying, “ _Mm_.”

                Ichi’s soft dick falls against Kakihara’s mouth as he leans over his head to undo his wrists.

                Kakihara mouths at it lazily, and Ichi says, “I wish that would have killed you.”

                “Me too. Get up for a second.”

                As Kakihara sits up without the use of his arms once again, he prods at his own stomach wound, pushing his guts “back in place.” Semen drips from his jawline and he pinches either side of the wound together with his hand. Maybe he should use a clothespin, or something.

                He gets off the bed and hands Ichi a stapler he finds in the drawer of his wardrobe.

                “Help me out here. Then we can get dressed and get back to our death match.”

**Author's Note:**

> this is my tribute to the best movie of all time i hope you liked it
> 
> [take my carrd](https://bibles.carrd.co/)


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